


rocky road

by griffenly



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-24
Updated: 2015-05-24
Packaged: 2018-03-31 23:34:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3997396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/griffenly/pseuds/griffenly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>you both grab for the last pint of ice cream at the supermarket and end up arguing over it au</p>
            </blockquote>





	rocky road

It was only Tuesday, and somehow Clarke’s entire body felt like it was weighted down with lead, and she wondered if maybe a herd of elephants had sat on her neck at some point during the night, or something, because she fucking ached, everywhere. It had been a hell of a shift, working the ER all through the night (she hated residency, honestly), and there had been no less than twelve ridiculous injuries - half of which had been drunken escapades aided and abetted by even drunker friends. 

And so she was letting herself unwind the only way she knew how: a pint of quite literally any ice cream available, and a bottle of red wine, and then she was going to sleep for approxiamately thirty hours. (Yes, she was aware it was only ten o’clock in the morning, but societal norms be damned.) 

Clarke walked into the grocery store still wearing the same scrubs she had started her shift in, now covered in a myriad of splotches she desperately did not want to think about. She was too exhausted to even contemplate changing when she had been informed her shift had finally ended, but she was starting to regret that decision now, watching the cashiers and the stay-at-home moms with their perfect hair and skin and shopping carts filled with a plethora of organic foods (she hated this city, too, Jesus) stare at her in a mixture of horror and confusion. 

Eyes on the prize, Griffin. 

She got the wine first, unsurprisingly the only person in the entire aisle, and also unsurprisingly receiving a look of pursed-lipped disdain from one of the aforementioned mothers who strode by the aisle. (Clarke was tempted to shoot her the bird, but, well - if she had learned anything from her upbringing, it was to be polite.) 

After selecting the bottle of choice, she stumbled her way into the ice cream section, sighing contentedly as she perused the Ben & Jerry’s flavors, searching for her favorite - she was incredibly partial to Half Baked, because, honestly, who wasn’t? - only to run directly into another person. 

“Shit, sorry,” Clarke said, looking up into dark, dark eyes and a face with constellations of freckles, and it took her a good half a minute to recollect her thoughts. And then he smirked at her, the bastard, and the fluttering in her stomach was because of hunger, or something, dammit. 

“No worries,” he said, removing his free hand from where it had settled on her arms (when had that happened?), and then she noticed the pint of ice cream in his hand. It was oddly gratifying, to know she wasn’t the only one who purchased ice cream at ten AM. 

“Good choice,” she said, surreptitiously stepping backwards and away from those dark eyes and large, warm hands and - shit, Griffin, get yourself together. 

“Thanks,” he said with a ghost of a smile at the corner of his mouth, and Clarke smiled back tentatively, moving around him so they had switched positions. She gave him a half-wave and turned around, aiming towards the section she knew the Half Baked was kept. (Yes, she came here often, judge her.) 

Except, she reached the spot where the Half Baked always, always was, and found it empty. 

(She remembered tall-dark-and-handsome, and her previous giddiness turned into anger, and she spun on her heel.)

“Hey!” she called down the aisle, and perhaps on any other day, she would have been embarrassed or would have toned down the theatrics, but today was not any other day, and she had barely managed six hours of sleep in the past three days combined, so theatrics it was. 

The guy with the curly hair turned around, a confused expression on his face as Clarke stormed up to him. There was a hint of amusement in his expression, too, and Clarke couldn’t exactly fault him for that, because she knew how ridiculous she looked, but she did kind of hate how good it looked on him. (Jesus Christ, sleep was definitely a dire need at this point.)

She poked him square in the chest when she finally reached him, at the end of the aisle, and said, “That’s the last one.”

He cocked an eyebrow at her. “I’m aware of that.”

Clarke let out an exasperated noise, pushing the curled tendrils that had fallen from her ponytail out of her face, crossing her arms over her chest. “Yes, well, mister, I just had the shift from hell and haven’t done well in the sleep department the past few days, and seeing as I’m one of the people who decides whether people like you live or die in my ER, it might be a good idea to keep me happy.” 

The amusement was blatantly obvious on his face at that point, and she noticed a dimple in his cheek, and fuck, was that really fair? He mimicked her position, and she eyed the Half Baked in his hand warily. Cocking an eyebrow, he said, “Oh, really? Now, is it really professional of you to be making deals on my life over a pint of ice cream?”

She snorted. “Professional? Fuck no. Necessary? Absolutely.”

He paused for a moment, eyes searching her face, and there was a spark there that Clarke admired, and the smile was stretched broadly across his face now, all pristine teeth and crooked grin, and she hated him. 

And then he uncrossed his arms and held out his hand and said, “My name’s Bellamy.”

She sputtered momentarily, before tentatively reaching out and taking his much larger hand into her smaller one, shaking it firmly. “Clarke.”

Bellamy’s smile grew impossibly wider. “Well, Clarke,” he said, and damn her if she didn’t love the way it sounded on his tongue, “why don’t you and I share this last pint, considering I just got off an obscenely long shift at the police station, and it would probably be a good idea to keep me happy, too. Considering I could have you arrested in the future, and all.” 

Clarke bit her lip to taper her laugh, and shifted her eyes from his face to the floor and then back. “Well, Bellamy,” she replied, and, yeah, she noticed the way his dimple deepened just a bit at her saying his name, too, “I’ll supply the alcohol.”

(It was ten o’clock in the morning, but honestly? She couldn’t have cared less.)


End file.
